


we'll all dance along (to the tune of your death)

by dumbassdisaster



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Other, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Thoughts, rating is for themes and swearing, ren is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns, there's a hopeful ending if you squint, this is kind of edgy i apologize, this takes place on 2/2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27811933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbassdisaster/pseuds/dumbassdisaster
Summary: Akechi's memories from a past reality replay every night. This particular night is worse than the others.He's not alone.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47
Collections: Quality Persona Fics





	we'll all dance along (to the tune of your death)

**Author's Note:**

> please be mindful of the tags. if you think I missed any content warnings, let me know
> 
> I listened to "I never told you what I do for a living" the entire time I wrote this, so if you want, listen to it beforehand or while you're reading. It'll set a nice Tone.

Akechi would walk past the spot, every day, every evening, always roughly at the same time. Like clockwork. He'd stare at it until his eyes wept from the cold wind, until he felt the phantom pain of a gunshot wound. His chest would ache, his eyes would sting, his vision would blur, would double, would turn red, and there'd be pain, so much _pain, he couldn't fucking take it, he'd rather be dead than deal with this shit again and again for the rest of his goddamn_ **_life_ ** _—_

And, just as quickly as it came, it would stop. He would blink the destruction away from his sight, watching as the blood on the sidewalk disappeared, turned into regular dirt, or water, or snow, or whatever else decided to be there on the given day. Echoes of his past—of his...mistakes, he supposed, though they didn't quite feel like mistakes—would fade into the grime. 

_Maruki_ believed Akechi’s past needed to be erased. His _decisions_ , the foundation that supported and shaped him. As if Maruki knew him. As if he knew anything about what occurred in Akechi’s life, in his head. 

When this train of thought would inevitably come to him every night—always in the same order, always at the same _time_ —he would twist his features into a scowl, try to glare a hole in the ground before walking into the nearest alley and punching the side of the concrete building as hard as he could. His bones would ache, but he didn't give a shit. He would hit and kick for as long as it took to calm down. It wasn't like he could scream in the middle of the city, no matter how badly he wanted to, so he’d settle for this. 

And that would be it. He'd straighten his clothes, fix his hair, stuff his battered hands into his pockets, and walk off; return...home, he supposed, if he could call it that. 

For weeks, that had been his routine. No one had ever interrupted him, no one ever saw him when he was leaving, and he thought this night would be the same. Never had any doubt it’d be the same, no matter what conversations he walked away from to get here. 

The discussion was finished, decisions were made, and he returns to that mundane stretch of sidewalk. It is nothing, it means nothing, he doesn’t even really know why his subconscious constantly leads him to this place. It makes no fucking sense. Besides, there’s only one day left, at this point, until he...until their plan will…

Which, he thinks, with all of this nothing and everything and _nothing_ swirling in his head, is good. His time’s almost up. That knowledge makes the red in his vision and the pain in his chest tolerable, and he finds himself almost at peace as the blood absorbs into the concrete this time, thinks he maybe won't even have to destroy his hand tonight, when...when—

When, goddammit, someone grabs his shoulder, and he has to keep himself from jumping, from whipping around and squeezing the person around the throat. Instead, he clenches his hands into fists, grits his teeth, finishes blinking away his memories—current reality? No, memories, they’re definitely memories—before turning around, slowly, glaring dangerously at whoever thought it wise to _grab him_ like that. 

And of course, of _course,_ it has to be _Ren._ That asshole. That _bastard_ who doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone. 

He faces them, hears their voice echo, _this isn’t trivial,_ in his head, tries to bite down the urge to punch in their skull, the urge to sink to the pavement and weep. 

"Why the hell are you _here_ ?" he hisses through clenched teeth, sending them a glare—which he _knows_ looks vicious; he observed it in his bathroom mirror for practice—to intimidate them, which would...which would work with literally anyone else, but. Well. He still has to try. 

It leads him nowhere, though. Ren simply holds his shoulder tighter, gaze steady, unwavering, and responds in an infuriatingly even voice, "I followed you."

" _Why?_ "

"I…" They pause, look him up and down, expression so fucking impassive that it takes all his control to keep from reaching out and shaking them. "I didn't want you to be alone."

His lip curls. "Well," he says, tone dripping with false sweetness, as he lifts his arm and pushes their hand off his shoulder, too hard, but he doesn’t care. He wants them to hurt. " _I_ do, so kindly fuck off."

If any of that even remotely phases them, they don’t show it. That damn concrete wall in the alley had looked more intimidated by him than Ren does. His fingers itch to punch it again, but he knows if he tries to take off, he won’t make it far. Not with _them_ right in front of him. 

God fucking dammit, his ears are ringing. 

He raises his hands, massages his temples, keeps eye contact.

"You have one more night," they say, softly. "Don't spend it alone."

He can't help it: he _laughs_ at that, too loud, too long; he probably sounds out of his mind, acting like this outside the Metaverse, but he _isn’t_ , he _doesn’t need—_

"’ _Don't spend it alone_ ,’" Akechi mocks through his laughter, nearly spitting in their face. "I'd rather die on the steps of this pathetic building than listen to your preaching, your...your _pleading."_ He straightens his back (when did he hunch over?), smile falling from his lips. He lets the silence stretch on, for a moment, to leave them in suspense, then, "I am _not_ changing my mind. Nothing you can say or do will dissuade me."

Ren’s eyes change at that, finally, _finally_ showing a reaction, and they look…fuck, they actually look _sad_ , how cute _._ "I know. I’ve made my decision. That's not why I'm…" They shake their head, furrow their brows. "Where are you going, tonight?”

He scowls. “It’s none of your concern.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” they say, bluntly, and _no shit_ , he’s made it _clear_ that he wants _absolutely nothing to do with them_ . He _refuses_ to be a temptation. “I get it. I didn’t mean to…” They wave their hands in frustration, cutting themself off with a sigh.

“You _get it_ , do you?” he asks, soft and dangerous, relieved they didn’t finish that sentence because he doesn’t want to hear it, but the cowardice pisses him off. If they can follow him to _here_ of all places, they can at least have the spine to say what happened here, what was _stripped_ from him against his will.

Ren winces—good—and tugs at a strand of their hair. “...I do.”

They both stand in silence, and he feels his body shake, remembering their conversation from less than an hour ago, when Ren tried to... when they were trying to…

 _Get it_ , they claim. A lie. This is nothing more than a manipulation tactic to try to...what? Appeal to his _empathy_ ? To his _desire to live_ ? Both are useless, he has _neither_ , so why do they keep trying this shit?

His vision becomes clouded with red, again, the second time for the night, which is new. They tried to _help,_ and—ha—failed so _miserably_ that they made his chest once again feel as if a bullet has torn through his heart. It’s—it’s funny, really.

He grips the front of his coat, blinking hard, staring at them as blood begins pouring down their face—no, no, blood is pouring down _his_ face. Isn’t it? Yes, the feeling is...it’s here, and there’s a hole in his skull, or his chest, but there’s also a hole in _their_ skull, and they both...match. They _match_ . How _poetic_ . How absolutely _beautiful_ that the one thing he needed...the one thing he was _supposed to do_ , the thing he _couldn’t do_ , was acting itself out in a macabre play, only for the two of them. 

A bullet through their head. He wishes he pulled the trigger himself, wishes Ren would fall to the ground instead of standing there staring at him like he’s lost control. He...he _hasn’t,_ these memories (current reality?) are just _too fucking loud_ . He wants to _say_ that, to explain that he really has it together, he does, he isn’t weak and doesn’t need that look of concern on their face. Doesn’t need the downturn of their lips, their lips that are...saying something?

He can’t hear it, though, the ringing is overwhelming, the explosions and gunshots have temporarily cut out his hearing, and the _pain…_ God, it’s increasing again; he can taste blood in his mouth, can see himself bleeding out on the sidewalk, left to decay, to be forgotten, to fail, to...to _die_.

Then, like it always does, it stops, and he can suddenly see again, the ringing in his ears turning dull before ending completely. He can’t feel the blood on his face or on his chest, though he can still taste it in his mouth. Weird. Why does that…?

 _Oh_ , he thinks as he licks his dry lips, _I must have bit my tongue. There’s actually blood._

As he returns to this false reality, he notices his hands are still clutching his coat, so he lets them drop, lifts his head to look around, notices that Ren isn’t in front of him anymore. Did his little _memory reenactment_ scare them off? God, he hopes so. Or maybe...maybe they’d really been shot in the head. Maybe their bloody face was _real,_ and no, no that’s worse. Worse? Yes, his chest is turning tight at the possibility of seeing their body limp and lifeless like he had been, on the sidewalk, forgotten, because Ren shouldn’t be forgotten. They should be remembered.

When he lowers his gaze, the street in front of him is empty, and free of blood and Ren’s pale corpse, and he hates how relieved that makes him feel.

It’s at this moment that he realizes someone’s beside him, whispering his name over and over, and his body turns cold as he stiffens. Haltingly, he turns to look, and he finds...them. Wide eyed and panicked, but very much unharmed.

Shit. 

“Are you okay?” Ren asks, as soon as their eyes meet his, their voice uncharacteristically desperate.

At a loss for words, he nods.

“What...happened?”

“I…” He licks his lips again, wincing. “I’d rather not talk about it. It’s over.” He narrows his eyes. “Is this why you followed me? To find me at a moment of weakness? So you could _convince me_?”

They stare at him. “I _wouldn’t do that,”_ Ren—no, _Joker_ —hisses, eyes fierce, and he’s...taken aback. It makes him shut up, at least, staring in fascination at the fire behind their disbelieving scowl. “I wanted to spend time with you. Where we could just... _be_ . Not talk about any of the bullshit. You’re...you’ve been avoiding me for _weeks,_ and I…” They pause, choking, sounding like—jesus fucking christ—like they’re holding back a _sob_ . “ _I_ don’t want to be alone, okay? I can handle it after tonight, but. I thought, maybe, after all that...you’d want to be with me, too.”

The idea of _wanting_ them is so absurd that he thinks he should laugh, but instead...fucking _dammit_ , instead his vision gets all watery, and his stupid, useless anger is overtaken by...what? Desperation? _Longing_ ? Some other disgusting, romantic garbage? Whatever it is, though, it’s strong, and he wants to die because they keep _looking at him_ , even as his traitorous eyes spill _tears_ down his cheeks. He hasn’t cried since he was a _child_ , why the hell is this happening to him?

Slowly, Ren reaches out, cupping his cheeks in their hands and wiping at his tears with their thumbs. They look absolutely _concerned,_ almost _enamored_. How foolish.

He tries to grunt in protest, but it comes out sounding more like a wet cough. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, petulant, but he doesn’t move away for whatever reason. Probably the same reason why he’s crying, why he didn’t just run the second he saw them at his grave. 

He’s such a coward.

Ren smiles fondly, running their hands through his hair. “Sorry.”

“You aren’t.”

“...No, I’m not.”

He rolls his eyes and manages to really grunt this time, leaning away from them and focusing on the water stained sidewalk through his blurred vision. In the dim orange streetlight, it does look like an old bloodstain, even when his brain isn’t attempting to relive death. Maybe the blood had been his. Maybe it’d been Ren’s. Maybe...maybe it’d been both of theirs. 

“I wish I could have killed you,” he says—whispers, more accurately, hoping he won’t be heard, hoping he can be left to rot on the ground. Vocalizing such a...desire, something he’s been thinking of for months, feels...it’s just...embarrassing. _Embarrassing._

Before he can spiral, though, Ren chuckles, such a genuine sound that he can’t be offended by it. What the _fuck_ is wrong with him. “It would’ve been easier, huh,” they say, and he can _hear_ the smile in their voice.

Easier. Easier? It wouldn’t have been _easier_ , but…

“Less traumatizing, at least,” he says, tearing his gaze away from the ground to look at them. Seeing them like this, sitting on the dirty street with their ridiculous clothing (those jeans with a _trench coat_?), makes his stomach drop and his heart race because he was a fool who let another criminal ruin his life.

Ren doesn’t respond, but their gaze is intense as they stand up without breaking eye contact, holding their hand out to him. He stares at it for a moment, his body aching from reality shattering twice in the same night. He still wants to punch that concrete wall until he’s bleeding and bruised and the flimsy bones in his hands are broken beyond repair, wants to kick and run and scream and fight the idiot above him, but he’s—fuck, he is _so tired._ Tired of the pain, tired of the failure, tired of waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for tomorrow to _finally be here_.

And, most importantly, somehow, he’s tired of lying to himself.

So, with longing coming back to him so quick and strong that he thinks he might actually puke, he takes Ren’s hand, and they pull him to his feet. 

They smile softly, clearly getting ready to say something, but he can’t _let them_ , or else he might spiral, he might find his fight or his _sense_ , and he _doesn’t want to_. He just wants to let himself have something without thinking.

And, god, is it worth it, when he closes their distance and kisses them with a tenderness he didn’t know he possessed, before they can speak. Heart aching, his head buzzes in a _pleasant_ way for once in his pitiful life, and the quiet breath Ren sighs out when he buries his face into their shoulder, shifting the short kiss into an embrace?

Well, he’s thankful it’ll be one of the last sounds he’ll ever hear.

* * *

The city can be hauntingly quiet. Eerie. Lonely. Ruthless. People pass by tragedy after tragedy, not knowing the significance of the ground they trample on. It’s pathetic, harrowing.

People pass over that sidewalk, every day. People pass by that building, _every day_. But people don’t know.

Ren does, though. They know the exact location, where he bled out. Where the bullet passed through him, made the little life left in him extinguish. Ren didn’t see it, of course. Why would he give them the chance to change anything? 

He was always stubborn. It was his downfall, in the end. 

But still. Ren knows. So they return, once a week, to evaluate the sidewalk, the large building. Where he lived, where he breathed, where he screamed, where he cried, where he…

They sigh, shoving their hands deeper into their pockets. No one remembers him. No one cares that there’s less life in the world, less laughter, less despair.

Why he insisted to die, they don’t fully understand. Something about freedom. Something about justice. It doesn’t feel like justice, though. It’s just cold, and empty, and pointless. 

A waste.

But maybe...it’s better off this way. That was what he insisted, at any rate. _Let’s make a deal, okay?_ How shortsighted. How horribly, stupidly selfish.

Shadows begin to elongate as the sun sets, dancing in a nearby alley in a way that looks like _him_ . But it isn’t him, he’s _gone_ , and they place their fingertips against their lips, their other hand clenching the glove in their pocket. Longing, wishing, yearning.

If only they’d gotten more time with him.

If only he’d wanted more time.

If only.

**Author's Note:**

> how many times can i say "fuck" in a single one shot?


End file.
